City of God by E.L. Doctorow Read Free Book Online Page B

from these few simple thoughts, perhaps simpleminded thoughts, I have discovered laws, physical laws, that alarm people to such a degree that they have decided the man in the street cannot be made to realize what I’m talking about, the revolution I have supposedly made. That I am some sort of genius to respect or even venerate while you scratch your head and say, God bless him. Look how funny, his hair is sticking up in every direction, perhaps from his having tried to fly into his mirror at the speed of light. Look at his sweatshirt, his unpressed trousers, not that this is practical for work but that forgetting to wear a coat and tie, he must be a genius. The chalk with which he writes his secret formulas on the blackboard, the chalk breaks in his hand! All this is the way the press and the radio people have relieved you of thinking about what I have to say. It is an insult not only to me but to you, because of course the human mind can always find out the truth, because however hidden it may be, eventually it will emerge. And nothing I have discovered is revolutionary, because I am seeing only what has always been as it is now and as far as I can tell always will be. It is only that our perception has become more. . . perceptive.
    So: after all, we may with assurance say only the following about the Old One’s universe: that nothing is constant other than the speed of light.
    Of space all we may say with assurance is that it is something you measure with a ruler.
    And of time all we may say is that it is something you measure with a clock.
    But for the theological visions and screams and terrors this produces in our brains, I beg you do not hold me responsible.

    â€”There are no science songs to speak of. No song tells you the force of gravity is a product of the masses of two objects divided by the ratio of the distance between them. Yet science teaches us something about song: Scientific formulas describe the laws by which the universe operates and suggest in equations that a balance is possible even when things are in apparent imbalance. So do songs. Songs are compensatory. When a singer asks, Why did you do this to me, why did you break my heart. . . the inhering formula is that the degree of betrayal is equivalent to the eloquence of the cry of pain. Feelings transmute as quickly and perversely as subatomic events, and when there is critical mass a song erupts, but the overall amount of pure energy is constant. And when a song is good, a standard, we recognize it as expressing a truth. Like a formula, it can apply to everyone, not just the singer.

    â€”An odd sighting on the dock, a great blue heron looking out one way, almost back to back with a snowy-white egret peering in the opposite direction. This is why everyone should sometimes leave the city.
    With the same food sources, I wonder that they get along, but there they stand with that mutual disregard.
I’m not looking, but I know you’re there.
The egret breaks first, the neck outstretched, the yellow bayonet beak extended, a beautiful bird in flight, sleek, like a Pre-Raphaelite seaplane, but with merciless eyes. . . and the heron, looking rumpled with its round black shoulder patch, the feathered body more gray than blue, the long legs, feet, and beak black. It is a less comely bird, a less spiffy bird than the egret, although with its huge wingspan as it takes off low over the water it does achieve an airliner’s stateliness. But there is a degree of sorrow in its gaze, and it is clearly aloner, a bachelor sort of bird who could use some female attention, some sprucing up, like me.

    â€”Heist
    A phone call from Rabbi Joshua:
    If we’re going to be detectives about this. . . we start with what we know, isn’t that what you did? What I know, what I start with, is that no Jewish person would have stolen your crucifix. It would not occur to him. Even in the depths of some drug-induced confusion.
    I shouldn’t think so, I